His Working Week
by irishileana
Summary: "Mister Johnson, for all his charisma, would never have written something so sentimental. He certainly would never have proposed." Caveline oneshot, rated T for non-graphic blood and mutilation.


_Caroline  
You are my north  
My south  
My east  
My west  
My working week  
And my Sunday rest  
Will you marry me?_

Her name jumped out at her, etching into her brain as surely as it was carved into the tree. As she read the inscription, her heart leapt foolishly, brainlessly, only to drop hard as she realized it wasn't_ her _name at all. It couldn't have been, not in the context of a message like this. Mister Johnson, for all his charisma, would never have written something so sentimental (and it wasn't as though she had any other possible suitors). He certainly would never have proposed. Now that she thought of it, this "Caroline" probably didn't even pronounce her name like she, Aperture's most dedicated assistant, did.

"None of these are right. We need _bigger _trees, the biggest and oldest in the forest—they can tower over the lint-lickers at Black Mesa the next time they try to take our products. I—Caroline? You even listening to me?"

The usually alert woman turned to face him, her face impassive. "Sorry, Mister Johnson. I got a bit . . . distracted."

He laughed, his arm easily sliding to rest along her shoulders. He was a very physically affectionate man despite his aversion to romance; his constant contact made it clear that she was his, that no one else should dare to touch her. She would never be legally bound to him, but he would never let anyone else dream of kissing her Cupid-bow lips. "Distracted? That sure as hell doesn't sound like my Caroline. Come on, you're supposed to be helping me with this. Mutant tree monsters are gonna be the next big thing. I just know it."

His gaze searched the area excitedly, as if he were trying to spot exactly what it was that had caught her attention—and surprisingly, he did. "Hey, Caroline, it's your name. Well, kinda, right?" She smiled at him, though the lift in her lips was slightly less than usual. He didn't notice, too caught up in reading the proposal. He was often caught up in things. "Never understood why people got into the whole tree-carving thing. If you're gonna do cheesy romantic crap, go big, right? Skywriting or something."

She nodded vacantly, knowing there would never be anything of the sort for her. "Yes, sir, Mister Johnson." Her typically chipper voice was flat. He gave her a look of surprise.

"You feeling all right, Caroline? Maybe we should get you outta the woods. Can't have my best girl coming down with a bug."

"I'm fine, Mister Johnson." She shook her head, forcing her voice back into its usual firm enthusiasm. "Let's find those perfect trees."

They left the wounded tree and all thoughts of marriage behind.

* * *

Caroline made a mental note to have Mister Johnson fire whoever had written this report. It was sloppy, rambling, and idiotic—a sixth-grader could have written something better. Even more irritating was that once she'd untangled the run-on sentences and bizarre colloquialisms, she'd realized this moron and his team had wasted thousands of dollars in company resources. No, firing wasn't enough punishment. Perhaps she could have him "accidentally" signed up for "less non-lethal" testing. The thought cheered her as she began to fill out the necessary paperwork.

"Caroline! Got something to show ya." She didn't flinch when his voice popped up out of nowhere; after so many years working for him, she'd gotten used to him appearing at random times, always expecting her to drop whatever she was doing to listen to him. Oh, but she didn't mind; his enthusiasm still enchanted her, and anyway, she _was _his personal assistant. "The trees are really maturing—got a good grasp of reading and writing and everything! Lab boys tell me they're still having trouble with long division, but you and I both know that kinda thing doesn't matter in the real world. C'mon, get up and stand with me for this one."

"Mister Johnson, I really should—" Her words were cut off instantly as she turned and saw his face, excited and earnest as a puppy's. That stupid, wonderful face got her every time, and she dutifully stood from her chair to have him pull her to his side with an arm around her waist. She couldn't help but rest her head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent of chocolate and cigars and Aperture. "What are we looking at, sir?"

"Nothing yet. Bring him in, boys!" This last line was called toward the door. He gave her waist a squeeze and she willed herself to keep from embracing him fully. He wouldn't have minded, but they were at _work _and professionalism was key during daylight hours. She didn't need the world knowing she was sleeping with her boss with no hope of a proper married life. It was bad enough that they all thought she'd screwed her way into her position in the first place (a lie—she hadn't given in to his advances until her fourth year at the company).

The door opened slowly to reveal two very dishevelled men in lab coats with a third man in between them. No, not even really a man—a teenager, maybe, a _boy. _The adolescent certainly wasn't dressed like a scientist; to Caroline's dismay, he wasn't even wearing a _shirt_, which made the blood smeared over his hairless chest quite evident. She cringed. While she didn't generally have a problem with a bit of gore as a concept, it was in danger of dirtying her immaculate office. She hoped it wouldn't find its way onto any of her paperwork. "Sir?" She could tell from the once-orange suit that had fallen around his hips (and that was thankfully catching at least _some _of the blood) that he was a test subject. What was so important about him?

"Jesus, clean it off a bit. Can't see a damn thing with all that blood in the way." Cave grabbed the bottom of one of the scientist's lab coats (the employee yelped and threw Cave a dirty look), mopping off some of the excess matter. The young test subject gave a slight moan, but Caroline could tell he'd been subdued with some sort of tranquilizer. Good. She didn't need him flailing around and knocking things over.

As Cave half-cleaned the damaged chest, Caroline started to notice that the subject's wounds weren't random. She moved a little closer to investigate. The lines were crude, the cuts still messy, but they looked like . . . words.

Forgetting her disgust, she grabbed the boy's shoulders to read.

_Caroline,  
Screw poetry.  
You're the  
best damn  
assistant around.  
Keep it up._

"Told ya they're getting a hang of the writing thing," Cave said proudly. Caroline's finger traced over the last line.

Keep it up.

"Yes, sir."

She glanced at the scientists, who were watching her with more interest than she felt they ought. Fortunately, they were shooed away by Cave, taking the semi-conscious test subject with them. The moment the door was closed, she turned to him and pressed her lips to his. He responded happily, fervently, and she was sorry to pull away.

"Trees that carve things into people." She wasn't sure how marketable that would be, but she'd enjoyed it all the same. "That's some interesting science, Mister Johnson."

It wasn't a proposal. It would never be a proposal and there'd never be a white dress or a giant cake at the reception. And yet, as Caroline looked down at the blood smeared on her hand, she knew that they'd already taken their vows somewhere along the way. He was _hers_ . . . and of course, she was his.

She always would be.

* * *

**A/N: **The initial poem is taken directly off of an actual tree carving; Google "proposal tree Caroline" and you should be able to find it in the images. The twist was inspired by a comment made by my friend Jef in response to the carving: "I wanna see a tree get revenge and carve love messages on people."


End file.
